Every Saint Has a Past
by nilsign
Summary: And Charles' has finally caught up with him. Possible future slash.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own anything including Wanted (2008) or X-Men: First Class (2011)

AN: Haha, I know I shouldn't be working on two Wanted/XFC fills at the same time but couldn't help it. This is for a prompt on the kink meme where this fic goes under the title HE CAN BEND BULLET TRAJECTORIES WITHOUT POWERS. It's a hopefully more cleaned up and extended version of the chapter I've already posted on the meme. Hope you all enjoy. Updates will probably be a bit slow going though.

AN to those who read TSACX: Trying to aim for a completely different tone (possibly style or is that just me?) and slightly different characterization of Wesley since in this fill Wesley IS Charles and not another fun crackish personality altogether so if you liked that, you might not like this fic. But I could fail altogether at making the stories a bit different so it may well not matter anyways.

...

Wesley feels it as he packs his life away, as he stows his broken typewriter to the side, as he crates the old furniture his ex didn't want and he couldn't quite bring himself to part with, folds jeans and a few sets of suits and ties he will never wear again, feels as every motion he takes, every moment that passes brings the sum that is Wesley Gibson's life closer to being but four dusty boxes in an attic. He can't help but feel dissatisfied with this resolution. There is a great, big, gaping nothing in his chest that is neither the peace nor vindication he expected, that having avenged his father or killing Sloan had not filled and has stayed with him ever since he first shot his father. But, Wesley knows there is little that can be done for it.

Besides, Wesley had already been gone long enough – his sister he left behind had been so terribly alone without him – and he had already achieved the control he'd set out for in the first place, credit to an organization of killers. No more hearing cries and screams of nightmares not his own at night, no more accidental knowing of the hate and scorn disguised behind façades of bright eyes and happy smiles, no more worrying about killing his sister from thinking about her too much. The life that had revolved around the fear, confusion, and the not-my-thoughts of his power was in his hands once again.

Wesley Gibson had served his purpose and was no longer needed. Charles on the other hand was.

His father's jacket and guns are the last to go and Wesley has to pause as he gripped the fine, leather material. He's tempted to keep the memento that is his father's jacket, he really is. The bloodstains, after a bit of work, had finally come off and the rips and tears, evidence of his final encounter with the Fraternity, had all been lovingly patched and sewn. He could tell Raven it was a souvenir from his travels, or even more scandalously, the half truth that his father had given it to him just before he died, and she would be none the wiser of what he had done.

But Wesley shakes his head, no, and grips the material tightly as if to imprint the memory of its texture in his hands, before that too is folded away. If he desires at least the slightest semblance of peace, Wesley must first let go of his past.

The guns on the other hand are locked without a second thought, he only holds off putting them away long enough to be sure that: yes, he'd taken out the magazines and yes, the barrel was empty. Guns had no place in the presence of his sister or in the quiet of the Xavier household – well quiet now that the bastard pair of Markos were gone. Which reminds him, Wesley thinks regretfully with a sigh, there will be no place for that either: cursing. The worst Raven could ever hear from him would be 'groovy'.

There isn't much time for mourning his small loss before Wesley senses the buzz of Raven's mind as she swiftly progresses up the stairs, home faster than he had anticipated, and the last of the locks are hurriedly clicked in place. Just in time too, for when Wesley turns around, it's to face, "Charles! I've missed you so much. Where have you been all this time?"

This is Wesley Gibson ending his own life.

"Exactly where I needed to be, Raven," he says and it is Charles Xavier that holds his sister in his place as she cries tears of joy and relief.

...

Charles is the closest to peace he has ever been, despite all the trouble his newfound mutant family causes: Erik pushing children out of third story windows, Raven's newfound rebellious faze, Sean's goal to be the Guinness record holder for most windows broken, and Alex and Hank's outdoor practice, now that Alex has a means to control his powers, and the subsequent police investigations – who the telepath sends back off on their way with a thought. Or perhaps it is for it, he can't help but think fondly.

It is unfortunate however, that no peace can last forever and that near-peaces such as his are no exception.

Charles is carefully expanding the field of his powers, testing their limits and exercising them because he knows he needs control over his ability as much as the children, if not more so, and as he slowly closes his eyes there is a nexus of white lights in the dark of his lids that rush up to greet them. Each light fluctuating in intensity, a sign he knows corresponding to the intensity of the emotions felt.

Erik, predictably, catches his attention first as he is the brightest of them all carrying an old rage and a newfound serenity. Currently he is taking a jog around the grounds. Sean, whose light takes a hazy quality, is in the middle of a rather...passionate dream. Meanwhile Hank and Raven – or is it Hank and Alex? Charles can never tell without a closer 'look' – are like binary stars, their emotions flickering about in typical, teenage capriciousness. Outside, so most likely Alex trying out the suit again, Charles finds himself automatically checking for cops and disgruntled authoritarian minds alike.

It is when Charles turns his mind's eye to what he assumes is Moira and Raven in the sitting room that it happens. The light of their minds disappear and in their place blackness. He stomps down on the instinctive panic. Just his mind playing tricks on him, Charles reasoned. Not like it never had before.

But no, Charles is in control now. He has to be, now more than ever with a man like Shaw on the loose to whom he already lost one child too many. And no matter how many minds he checks, at least a good mile out from the grounds, none of them are Raven's. Moira, on the other hand, is only now returning to the mansion.

'_Moira,' _he projects to her, waiting for the ping of recognition that couldn't come fast enough before continuing. _'You haven't spotted Raven around have you?'_ he can't help but ask. He already knows the answer of course, is dreading it, but it helps delay the onslaught of worry and anxiety and _she could be dead_'s – because for a mind to shut itself away from him like that, it could only mean that they were... – if only for a few moments.

So when, connected to Moira's mind, Charles feels her lips form the answering words, "No, I've been out all morning on business with the CIA. Why?" before she remembers she should probably have said that in her mind and half-forms the thought for Charles, _'No, I've been out-',_ he has already anticipated the answer and plans accordingly, responding: _'If everyone could meet in the dining room.' _

The thought this time is directed to the entire household, and it takes all Charles much labored for control not to let his anxiety slip into the thought as well. There is a small hitch, what with Sean still being asleep throughout the whole ordeal, but Charles resolves it by having him simply sleepwalk to join the other boys whose curiosity he soothes with a vague promise for answers, _'In due time'_.

Just...much later when he's calmed the fuck down, Charles thinks to himself. And that thought most of all betrays exactly how _not fucking calm_ he is, temporarily falling back onto the crutch that was purely _Wesley_. It is the non-existent weight of the guns at his side that had characterized the last months of Wesley Gibson's life that ground him to Charles more than anything else in the absence of Raven.

'_And what of you, Charles?',_ Erik asks suspicious, sensing that this was more than a simple meet over training schedules or a lecture on how to not catch the gentlemanly police officers' attentions. _'Aren't you going to join this little get together of yours?'_ This time the inquiry is accompanied by the slight tug of Charles' wrist watch.

Charles spared only half a thought towards how remarkably precise Erik's use of his power was, the control with which he wielded it almost enviable, instead focusing on heading towards the sitting room where he last felt Raven's presence. _'There's a matter I must investigate first,' _Charles explained._  
><em>

He supposes he should be charmed when Erik's immediate reaction is, _'I'll go with you.'_ And he truly is, but the other man's concern is misplaced and Charles tells him exactly that, _'I can take care of myself better that you would expect, my friend. It is the children that need looking out for.'_

Besides Charles isn't sure what to expect, which is an unusual feeling since Sloan and the exception of Shaw's attack, and isn't sure of what danger that awaits them. At least going alone he would only be endangering himself, Raven as well if she was still in the mansion but at least then it would only be her had to look after against the unknown threat. And if Charles really needed to, he could always send a quick mental message for help after the threats been assessed, confident in his own abilities to at least buy some time before they reached them. In the worst case scenario, this is the only thing he would be able to do for them if that message for help becomes a warning to get away.

'_The children can take care of themselves,'_ replied Erik with some resignation.

'_In time my friend, but first they must learn control.'_ And that is the end of it. Only it's not because Charles is sure Erik was going to follow him regardless, and quite possibly with the hefty arsenal metal pots and pans from the neighboring kitchen pantry in tow, for which Charles had the others go to the dining room in the first place.

He must make the investigation fast then and, if necessary, eliminate the threat to his family one way or another. If not with his powers then perhaps the decorative rapiers they'd mounted on the wall over the floral pattern sofa Raven so adored, because with a sense of urgency Charles realizes it is not the absence of minds he 'sees', but rather, it is the blackness of a telepathic dead zone which his powers cannot touch.

What most people do not know – except as silly myths and superstitions – is that on some level, all minds are interconnected. In Charles' mind's eye, these connections are represented as fine strands between the white lights of emotions. Too thin to let the influence of his powers traverse on or differentiate the exact relationship by which the connections were tempered, whether they were wife, friend, son, or hadn't even met at all – though Charles suspects that if only he had more control they could. Would be terribly useful in making a man disappear, the side of himself he locked away in the attic would think – but there enough to be visible, and to Charles, the world within the range of his 'sight' is covered in them.

Except the sitting room, in which no threads of thought seem to pass.

Charles is barely winded from his quiet dash to the sitting room and breaks right before the open door and _nothing_ with no little trepidation. It is only after he sneaks a peak of Raven – alive, healthy, and okay – smiling curiously over the edge of the opening that he lets out the breath he hadn't noticed he'd been holding back and finally lets some of the tension slide off his shoulders.

"I'm sorry, but I think you've got the wrong address. No one under that name lives here," floats Raven's voice around the corner

"Are you certain?" replies a man. Mid to late thirties, Charles would wager, with a faint accent he couldn't quite place and rasp that spoke of one cigar too many. "I'm sure the head of the house would know. What does he go by again? Oh yes, Mr. Charles Xavier. Oh wait, wait! No, I got that wrong. It's professor now isn't it?"

"Not exactly, he has to teach first," says Raven awkwardly, repeating Charles' own words to the mystery man. Not scared, but a little weirded out, Charles noted. Then she hadn't been threatened outwardly at least.

"Of course," replied the man.

There is a shift of someone getting up before Charles hears Raven's voice again, "Maybe I should go get Charles for you."

"No that won't be necessary, my dear. He'll be on his way soon enough."

Even without his telepathy, Charles knows this is the man's cue for him to enter and does so, bracing himself against the sudden silence in his head. "Speak of the devil," the mystery man exclaimed in mock surprise. The sly smile and eye towards the door only Charles could see, as it was turned away from Raven, told him that the other knew Charles had been behind the corner the whole time, "We were just talking about you. Mr. Xavier, I presume?" The stranger held out a hand.

"Yes, that would be me," replied Charles easily enough, playing along and shaking the proffered hand with a sinking suspicion in mind. "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage though as I have yet to catch your name," Of all the worst-case scenarios Charles had imagined, this had not been one of them.

"Names aren't easy things to hand out. You of all people should know that, Mr. Xavier." Charles thought he'd left this all behind him. "But you can call me 'Sloan'." That isn't even the worst of it.

Of all the worst-case scenarios Charles had imagined, this had not been one of them. But it very fucking well should have been.

"Charles, who's Wesley Gibson?" asked Raven.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

AN: Thank you for all the reviews, alerts, and favorites! I'm glad to know people are liking/interested in the fic so far! Not much action but I hope you enjoy anyway.

Edits: Some small grammatical edits made on this chapter. Thanks to the anon who pointed it out!

Chapter 2

The world is a dangerous place. Charles more than anyone else should knows this, having observed it through the minds many and seen it, _felt_ it for himself. Suffered with it in his youth, the eviscerated chest and torn limbs of the victim, the all consuming _desire _of the rapist whose minds called out to him the loudest with pleas for _help_ or _want_ – a feeling he had learned to suppress as he got older, pushed aside to the periphery in favor of the suffering and hunger and warmth of his own body.

He also knows the world isn't something he can shield Raven from forever if at all, but at the very least he had hoped he could shield her from _this_: his brief foray into the world of _killing, revenge, justice?, violence _that shouldn't have been necessary if only he had more control from the start. Not just to reign in the vastness of his mutation, but control over his own desire for a greater purpose which his responsibility to Raven should have been more than enough to fulfill.

Years of practice of hiding other people's emotions from showing on his face – when he can't find that point between rage and serenity and the mental barriers break down, when he can't tell himself apart from his nanny Anne or James from down the lane – is the all that keeps it from betraying his own.

"I'm sorry, Raven. Come again?" he asked slowly, as if he hadn't heard her correctly.

And he can't be entirely sure he did, really, without hearing the echo of her thoughts. It's a bit disturbing, Charles thought, looking at her at this distance – only a few feet away – and not feeling the slightest press of her mind against his own.

It was like watching the telly. The image and the sound were all there, but it lacked that certain depth that made it real. He almost had to remind himself that that was his sister standing over there and simply not a highly animated statue or animatron Hank had managed to conjure up in the lab.

But Raven simply ignored him, turning to the man who addressed himself as 'Sloan' instead – which he couldn't be unless he was like Raven; hardly resembling the man except in his inappropriately cheerful demeanor. "See, I told you, wrong house," she said a little more brusquely than she had intended, all too eager to send the strange man, with the odd tattoos of zeroes and ones under his shirt she instinctively knew were there, along his merry way and out of the house.

"I wouldn't be too sure," replied Sloan, deliberately folding his hands over his knees and settling down more comfortably in his seat, making it clear that he wasn't planning on leaving anytime soon. Not till he got whatever it was he came for.

Raven's struggled not to let her scales bristle at that. As something of a natural mimic herself, Raven had a rather good people sense. Nearly as good as Charles when he actually put his telepathy to good use and wasn't busy sticking a foot in his mouth. And that same sense was telling her there was something distinctly wrong with the man in front of her that wasn't all about the excessive amount of tattoos on his back. It was in the build of his body, the coil of his muscle and the small callus between the joints of his forefinger. It was in the way his body was made to move.

Not entirely unlike Erik, Alex, or even Charles when he came back from his trip after the incident she noted, but at least for the first two, they had Charles to vouch for them, and she knew personally that Charles wouldn't harm a hair on her head, much less a fly if he could help it. This Sloan on the other hand...

The man had a smile in his eyes as he directed a request to Charles, "Why don't you tell her who Wesley Gibson is, Mr. Xavier?"

'A nobody', Charles wanted to say, 'A killer' if he felt like being truthful about it. Charles decided to settle for the half-truth, unsure of how much 'Sloan' had disclosed to his sister while he hadn't been present, "Wesley was the name I took up while I was away."

"That still doesn't tell us why he's here," persisted Raven mulishly. Truly bothered by the man then, Charles observed, if she completely ignored the mention of 'away'.

'Away', what a pleasant way to put it, he couldn't but think, as if he'd simply gone on a well-deserved vacation to take a break from his strenuous studies at Oxford. 'Away' used to be a point of great contention among the Xavier siblings between Raven's concern turned insatiable curiosity and _where-the-hell-have-you-been_'s – once she found out he came back better and improved with a firmer handle over his powers – and Charles inexplicable reluctance to talk about it.

Now 'away' was simply the giant elephant in the room they knew was there but never mentioned if they could help it.

"Don't be rude," Charles chided her gently more out of habit than a genuine reminder for manners – Raven in response petulantly stuck her bottom lip out, crossed her arms, and turned away – before steering the conversation to the question he'd been burning to ask the most since he knew Raven was safe, "but my sister does bring up a valid point. Why are you here? For Wesley, correct?" he asked. "I only find it curious because I was certain I tied up all the loose ends before I retired from that life."

With over a hundred perfectly aimed bullets, no less, he added mentally.

The slight tensing at the man's elbow was the only sign that showed he'd recognized the threat for what it was and what would happen if he were any of those 'loose ends'. Charles to his credit couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt, if not for the man then at least for his sister who he was currently failing, whether she knew it or not, exchanging veiled threats over her head and hiding more skeletons in his closet than he care to count, putting her in danger by being his very presence.

Fuck, nothing's changed at all, Charles thought. Before his sister had been in danger of a stroke, now it was bullets through the brain. This wasn't what Raven needed from her brother...But, he resolved, this was the hand fate dealt them, and Charles would do his best to fix this and make it all go away.

"I wouldn't call what I'm here for a loose end, Mr. Xavier," said the man as he sat up to his full height, a good foot over Charles if he were to rise. "I'd like to think of it as a new beginning."

Charles only settled himself in the seat between Raven and their 'guest' before raising a brow in question.

"I come here with a proposal on the behalf of the organization," the man started, "We've been undergoing new management for our branch in the Americas, and were wondering if you'd care to rejoin us."

Charles response was immediate, "No."

The man tried a different route. "You might not be aware, but you've been highly recommended within the organization and outside. I've seen your records myself, and I must admit it's one of the best I've seen and I've been the organization for a very long time." The man finished ominously, "There isn't much we wouldn't do to have you," which could mean anything from shiny, new cars to waking up to a knife at your throat.

Before Charles could think a proper response though, Raven interjected. "And what sort of organization is this?" she asked, temporarily setting aside her earlier discomfort and taking on a polite, curious smile once again, as soon as she found out their guest could give her answers about what had happened in Charles life whilst they'd been separated. Charles wasn't sending her any mental warnings at least, so the man couldn't be too bad, she reasoned.

Charles resisted the urge to pinch his nose at the absurdity of the situation but was surprisingly spared from answering by 'Sloan' himself, "A fraternity organization his father used to be a part of," which was the perfect answer to put her off on the subject matter altogether, as it sounded an awful lot like stuffy old men get-together parties to Raven and quickly had her resuming her bored, defensive sulk.

"Hear me out," said the man to Charles, holding out a hand as if to stop Charles from hulling his ass out the front door and mind wiping him as he should have as soon as the other man had said 'Sloan'. "I understand you had some difficulties with my predecessor, but I assure you he was the exception. The rest of the organization is much stricter with its adherence to the code."

Charles resisted the urge to snort. Wasn't that a load of bullshit. A group of trained killers all perfect, little boy scouts that followed the rulebook to the tee? Wesley had learned his lesson on that the hard way.

"Then why hadn't your predecessor been dealt with sooner?" Charles asked aloud. Why had Wesley have to be the one to sort out the mess? Didn't they know Sloan's name came up?

Charles wasn't truly planning on the joining the Fraternity again, but for the sake of information he kept up the act of reluctant interest – or so he told himself; there was an itch Charles had denied himself from scratching, that hadn't settled down since Erik had offered him a gun and had all but asked him politely to please shoot him through the face.

"Ours is a large organization," began the man. "We usually have people like my predecessor and myself to manage the orders from the higher up," _Fate_, "and any misconduct done under our branch. If one of us were to say 'act out of line', we'd be hard pressed to verify it since orders come down individually for each continental branch, makes everything much smoother."

"Sacrificing security for efficiency?" Charles pointed out.

The man's smile was all teeth now. "The higher up always gets their message across eventually," he said hinting his father's own discovery of the truth and Wesley's resultant actions after he'd been forcefully retired from the Fraternity.

Charles had to concede that that did seem to make sense. Getting names around to the right people should be the least of Fate's powers. Perhaps it wouldn't be all that bad if he joined. People were bound to die anyway whether it was him at the other end of the scope or not. At the very least, he could prevent what happened with his father and Sloan from happening again.

He mentally shook himself. No, he couldn't fall into this trap again. He had his sister to worry about and besides, without his telepathy to verify anything the man was saying now...

The man seemed to notice his doubt and reacted by slowly reaching for his breast pocket, not subtle enough to be unnoticed but slow as to not raise alarm, carefully extracting a small silver cube. Each side appeared smooth but there must have been a button of some sort because as soon as the man pressed his thumb against there was a faint click and then the world lit up again. That must be the device that had been blocking Charles powers.

'Sloan' rolled the cube around in one hand like a die, keeping it in open view while disguising its true purpose from Raven. "Go ahead ask me anything" he said, mind flaring brightly for Charles with arrogance and open invitation. The telepath was all too eager to take him up on the offer. Casually leaning his head to the two fingers of arm propped on arms of the chair, Charles dove in.

He was known as Sloan, a name passed down to every leader of the American Branch. No real name, but if he were to come up on the loom it would be under his other inherited title, The Professor ironically enough, similar to Gibson's new codename according to investigation reports. Age sixty-one, much older than Charles original estimation. He aged well then despite the nicotine addiction – a minor mutation perhaps? – and had one child under the alias surname, Jaeger, who Sloan thought was born for the field. Little Alexi would be a natural.

Despite having family though, he didn't truly live anywhere, always on the move. He had been the go to runner for the organization and very hands-on despite his lofty position within the Fraternity – which explained why he was here instead of a typical grunt. Not that it made him very hard to find. If you wanted to meet him all you had to do was stay at his favorite bar up in Canada where men fought in a chain link fence cage like animals. He was there at least two times a week even when he had no business being on this side of the pond.

No powers that he knew of. Just an average human in every respect except that he explicitly ordered for men's deaths.

What mattered the most to Charles however were the man's intentions and he was quick to direct his search to find that they were...surprisingly pure. The man fully intended to leave in peace whatever the result may be. Just, not without trying quite a bit of persuasion to get Gibson back to killing form. Besides this wasn't all about justice and killing, this was about what was right and he knew eventually that Gibson's need to do what was right would eventually turn him on the correct course.

Erik's roiling anger coming down the hall was what brought Charles back to his senses and the edge of temptation with its intensity, a firm reminder that people depended on him to be Charles and not Wesley. Wesley could be neither a guide for the children or a nurturer of peace for their race. Wesley was not a man who could keep their sister safe.

"I ask that you leave my home."

Charles felt the man's answering shock at the suddenness of his rejection. "Truly?" he asked as if Charles would rescind his request any moment.

"Truly," confirmed Charles, "I have better things to do with my time than cater around for a Fraternity."

The man stood up with a small sigh of disappointment. "You can't deny what's in your blood, Mr. Xavier." At Charles steely look he amended, "But if that is your decision, we understand. Before you show me out however, take this," the man said offering the silver cube, "It's the least we can do for your past services."

It was Charles turn to be shocked, barely snapping out of his stupor to take it. _"I'd have your personal scientist - Mr. McCoy was it? - look into that one. They've been drawing up plans to mass produce those,"_ thought the man to Charles.

Aloud the man said, "Ah and before I forget," he drew a plain, white piece of cloth from his pant pocket, "Another parting gift."

"I couldn't-," Charles began, briefly giving a thought to how odd this must come off to Raven now. Old man society tradition, he'd have to tell her.

The man shook his head. "I insist," he said as he pushed the seemingly innocuous piece of cloth into Charles' hands.

Charles gripped it like a lifeline. "_I thought you said names weren't easy things to hand out."_

"_That's why I'm giving this one to you,"_ replied the man.


End file.
